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Future President and proud coal miner's daughter, Hillary Clinton, proved the pundits wrong yesterday and won her home state of Pennsylvania by a record landslide. Now it's off to a certain victory in her home state of North Carolina, where Senator Clinton spent a good part of her youth working on her family's tobacco farm.

Yes, Hillary and tobacky go waaaay backy. She planted it, grew it, picked it, rolled it, smoked it, chewed it, taxed it and sued it all while under heavy sniper fire. An avid smoker, Hillary will be campaigning heavily across the Tar Heel State for the next two weeks while puffing on filterless Camels from inside her iron lung. She is virtually guaranteed a win both there and in her home state of Indiana, where Hoosier Hillary grew up racing Formula One cars under heavy sniper fire.

It's all over for Obama. With his loss yesterday, it's obvious that he's peaked and his pointless campaign is finally on the decline. His snotty remarks about Pennsylvanian rednecks stubbornly clinging to their guns and their Bibles, while 100% true, proved to working class voters that he isn't the unifying icon of the common man he claims to be, but rather an elitist snob. And while democrats adore an elitist snob, the one thing we simply won't tolerate is a phony.

Canadian Pop Diva Celine Dion announced plans today to re-record her blockbuster single My Heart Will Go On as a new Blood & Feces-Smeared Edition.

Over the next several months, Dion plans to become impregnated by several homeless drug addicts. She will then strap several cats to her naked body and throw herself down a flight of stairs. Her wails of agony as she miscarries will be recorded and put to music.

To differentiate the single from any of her other recordings, Dion will smear the CD cover with her own blood and feces.

Dion insists that her intention isn't to shock or offend, but I can already hear the right-wing anti-choice Jesus freaks huffing and puffing and calling for boycotts.

Tired of creating art that people would actually want to buy and hang on their wall, renowned artist Thomas Kincade has announced plans for a new series of paintings designed to provoke, inspire, and perhaps earn him a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Thomas Kincade's Blood and Feces-Smeared World of Wonder Collection will feature some of his most famous idyllic scenes smeared with the artist's own blood and feces. For the centerpiece of the collection, Kincade plans to film himself fingerpainting a gingerbread house with blood from his own severed penis, which he will then dip into beer batter, deep fry, and have surgically reattached by a mentally challenged dwarf. Wild raccoons will then be encouraged to gnaw on Kincade's fried genitals while he recites the Lord's Prayer from a Bible smeared with his own blood and feces.

Kincade insists that his new artistic style isn't meant to shock or offend, but rather spark a serious and intelligent discussion into how totally shit-fucking nuts he is.

His Holiness the Dalai Lama visited the Pacific Northwest this week to inseminate the Seattle community with his blessed Seeds of Compassion. What better way to honor his great gift than to attend the festivities with the girl of my dreams, the love of my life, my soulmate, Britnee "with Two E's" Bingham?

"I hate country music!" Britnee whined when I presented her with the idea.

"Not Dolly Parton, you stupid bitch," I patiently educated her. "The Dalai Lama! He's a symbol of peace and harmony throughout the world! Love gushes forth from his sacred chakras and splatters all those around him like vomit from a sick cat! He's a Holy Man, damn you! A HOLY MAN!"

"Holier than Obama?" she persisted.

"Possibly" I told her.

"What makes him so Holy?" she prodded me.

I thought about it for a moment and then answered, "Well, he's from Tibet...and he does that Jesus thing with his hands."

Britnee's face couldn't conceal her skepticism. "I'm not all that religious."

"Neither am I. But we need a spiritual leader if we're ever to lure the American Taliban out of their churches and teach them about love and compassion. The Dalai Lama is soft on abortion. He's fuzzy on sex outside of marriage. Totally iffy when it comes to sodomy. Who could ask for anything more from a progressive messiah? Come on, it'll be fun!"

When Britnee and I hooked up at a Hillary fundraising dinner and FurryCon a few weeks back, she assured me that she was spiritual, but not religious. But her ignorance concerning the Dalai Lama and her strange reluctance to put out have led me to question her spirituality. When we arrived at Qwest Field for the Dalai Lama-Rama last Saturday, my suspicions were confirmed by her stubborn refusal to wear the Official Dalai Lama Toga of Happiness, free with the purchase of His Holiness' autobiography, Grown' Up Dalai. I couldn't even get her to do that Jesus thing with her hands. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps her claims of spirituality were merely a bogus ploy to assume a position of moral superiority over others without actually having to adhere to any concrete set of morals. Damn, I hate that. But I was eventually able to use my excellent powers of persuasion to convince her to come along.

"Where are the Llamas?" Britnee demanded as we made our way through the throngs of devoted followers to the football field where his Holiness would soon bless us with his divine words of truth. "You said there would be Llamas!"

"Shush! I think the Dalai Lama is about to speak!"

The excited crowd suddenly surged forward as the Lama's familiar, high-pitched voice came over the loudspeakers. There were too many dipshits in the way for me to actually see His Holiness, but his words of love for our fellow man filled me up like a peanut butter enema.

"People need to stop being mean to each other and stuff," he spoke. "People need to like, start being nice to each other and stuff, because we are all brothers and sisters in the Circle of Life. And we shouldn't make fun of the way people dress or knock people down at recess and sit on their heads until they say 'I'm a great big fag!', either. Oh, and we need to get rid of our nuclear weapons and stuff, too! And no more creamed corn in school lunches!!"

So profound! So eloquent! The Dalai's words were like manna for the ears of a progressive hungry for truth and wisdom in this age of right-wing lies.

Then sudeenly, there came a loud whistle of feedback as another voice broke in over the Dalai's oratory. "That was little Jimmy Wyler of Pinewood Elementary, winner of the Seattle P-I's Dalai for a Day Essay Contest! Everyone give it up for little Jimmy!"

Then, at last, the dude we stood we stood in line for 2 hours and sat through 45 minutes of Dave Matthews for, the co-winner of the Nobel Peace prize with Abu Nedal, a man loved by the whole world over except for maybe his former slaves and the people he oppressed back in Tibet (but that's their Karmic payback for pissing him off in a previous life) the 14th Lama of the Lama Lama Ding Dongs, Dalai "formally known as Carl Lipowitcz" Lama sprang forth from a giant spinning yin-yang and out onto the stage in an eruption of applause and WWF pyrotechnics.

Britney and I watched in awe as a procession of celebrities and political figures made their way to the platform to lick the Holy Toe Jam from between the Dalai's divine digits. Richard Gere. Stevie Seagal. That actress with the big tits. All respected Dalai disciples who have proven their spirituality by giving the Lama large sums of cash in exchange for a membership in the exclusive Junior Lama Fun Club. Even our own Governor Christine Gregoire paid her respects, although she botched the Jesus hand thing and tried to pull off some sort of half-curtsey, half-Lotus Position manuever. The Lama was clearly unimpressed.

When all the Beautiful People were through kneeling at the feet of the Grand Poobah of Peace, the Guest of Honor himself stood up and made his way to the podium.

"I love you..." he assured us in his familiar broken English. "You love me. We all one happy family."

WOW! Words could not express the overwhelming feeling of peace and love I felt pouring through my chakras just being in the presence of this holiest of holy man! I felt cleansed! I felt as if all my sins had been forgiven, without ever having to even confess them, promise to repent, or even acknowledge that sin exists, because it doesn't!!

"Yahoo! Let's go home and screw!" I shouted.

But when I turned around, Britnee was gone.

So much for compassion. Some people's hearts are just too filled with hate to know the true meaning of love.

He was a man of strength and integrity, a proud American and a true patriot. But out of all the reasons to hate Charlton Heston's guts, the one he will be most remembered for was his irrational support for the so-called "Second Amendment": an obscure passage in the Bill of Rights which he, in his Alzheimer's-ravaged mind, believed protected an individual's "Right to Bear Arms".

The truth is, no one really knows what the Second Amendment means. The meaning of the words "...the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed," has eluded even the best Constitutional scholars, from George Clooney to Rosie O'Donnell, for countless generations. Even the Supreme Court, a historically reliable bastion of progressive wisdom (albeit somewhat diminished since Bush began filling it with neocons and Uncle Toms), remains divided over the interpretation of the mysterious phrase.

The best theory anyone has for the existence of the Second Amendment is that the Founding Fathers were idiots and had no idea what they were getting us all into. Or maybe they just put the Right to Bear Arms in there as a joke. If so, then the joke is on the 12 million young people who die every year in campus shootings, thanks to Heston's twisted defense of an outdated right that has nothing to do with gay sex or abortions.